


clean-shaven

by hashire



Series: happily ever after [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (kinda), Bathing/Washing, F/M, Facial Shaving, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hashire/pseuds/hashire
Summary: In which Mikasa reluctantly shaves Levi's face.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Levi
Series: happily ever after [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1298450
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	clean-shaven

**Author's Note:**

> Am I too late to get on the Mikasa shaving Levi's face train??? I marked this at M but maybe it should be E. Lemme know if you feel strongly about it.

The stubble catches on the rough tips of her fingers. She considers trying to convince him to keep it, to grow it out more, to show her what he looks like with the sparse beard that he and others have described; to tease him into letting her put down the razor and slip into the bath with him. She perches precariously on the edge of the tub, skin still damp and hair dripping, sending rivulets of water down her back.

But he never agrees, never even stops to think about it. He’d take the razor from her, holding it in his bad hand, and struggle. He grabs it like the swords they used to carry. After the attempt fails, he switches to his other hand. It’s no better than his right, and his frustration just grows when he tries. So, she does it.

Not before running her fingers through his wet, silver streaked hair. She pushes it back from his face, twirls a few strands around her fingers to give him soft curls that he always combs away. He doesn’t stop her from doing it. He strokes her bare thigh with his left hand, the remaining ring and pinky fingers of his right leaving wet trails along her forearm. He watches her face as she focuses on the curls, one eye half-closed: dull and unseeing. 

She wants these moments to stretch on and on, but the damp of her skin leaves her cold, even with the warmth of his hands on her and the bathwater reaching up to her mid calf. He moves his hands to her hips when she leans back to grab for the shaving cream. It’s close, just in reach: she appreciates the steadying hands regardless.

She dips the brush into the bath to wet it, drawing the bristles over his forearm to remove the excess. He’s not quite ticklish but still wrinkles his nose at the feeling. His expression changes back to the familiar neutral when she reaches for the bowl of frothy shaving cream. It's deflated just slightly since she mixed it, though not enough to truly make a difference. 

She swirls the brush around on the little bowl to gather enough lather to cover most of his face in one go. His hands move to her thighs. He draws patterns on them as she smooths the lather over his face. It covers the scars on his left cheek, the fading lines on his chin, the long-healed gash on his right cheek. She cups his chin to tip it up and brush the froth under it. It gets on her fingertips, drips on her forearm. She scoops it off and dabs it on his nose.

Before he can reach up to swipe at it - can even take his hand away from her thigh - she flicks open the straight razor. He sharpened it that morning with the same precision he uses to do everything. She would never cut him with it, of course: not intentionally. Putting a hand up between a blade and one's face is generally discouraged behavior. 

Shaving his face now is a precarious task. The scars on his face have not all settled, so she has to take extra care over the puffed ridges and occasional dips. The flick of the razor is slower, more careful: not that she hadn’t been careful before, but, when wielding blades constantly, a similar and smaller version required little adjustment. Until, of course, _everything_ happened.

There are times to dwell on the past, to reminisce, and this is not one of those times. She uses the now tepid bath water to rinse the razor. The water becomes cloudy with each pass. She uses a thumb to wipe away the residue on his nose. He tips his chin up without prompt.

The breath he lets out tickles the thin skin of her wrist when she cups his cheek. She rinses the last of the lather off the razor, using the cool water to rinse his neck and face. Her thumb traces the lines of his scars. His eyes fall shut as he leans into her touch. His fingers twitch against her thighs. Even with the chill that creeps up on her with each drop of water down her spine, she grew used to the warm. It almost startles her.

The edge of the tub digs into her backside as he moves close enough to rub his smooth face against her knee. His hands slide up up up, the gentle pressure parting her legs more. His nose nudges against the sensitive flesh leading to the crook of her knee. His teeth flash in the low light of the room, nipping at her. He nuzzles over it. The scar on his lips catches against her, his tongue slipping out between them before she can dwell on it again.

But the cause of the breath catching in her throat, the low moan following it, is not from his touches. She imagines the stubble over her skin, and, as much as it would probably lead to discomfort after, the idea of it scratching oh-so-lightly against her is endlessly appealing in this morning. Her eyes flutter shut as she grabs ahold of his hair, drier and curling around her fingers. He groans at the feeling of her tugging it, following her guidance further between her legs.

She pants in the slowly dissipating humidity of the bathroom as his tongue slides over her. A suck to her clit is nearly enough to undo her, but then he pulls back. The whine in her throat is too loud, too high. He stands before she can offer a hand to help. He is taller than her in this moment, cupping her face and tipping it up to look at him. She does so through hooded eyelids. When she catches her lower lip between her teeth, he leans down to take it between his instead.

The bathmat scratches her back as he moves against her. Their damp legs tangle in those moments, the two fingers of his right hand dipping inside of her. His kisses still taste of her, his tongue swiping against her bottom lips to soothe it from the bites before it slides between her lips. She sighs against his cheek when he pulls back, shivering at the breath that warms her ear. He withdraws his hand from between her legs and slips into her.

Her legs go around his waist as he rocks back and forth, back and forth. The waning rays of the sun catch the dull of his eye. The feeling of the bathmat against her fuels her desire, and she imagines it to be what she wants to feel as she cups his face. Their skin slaps together when he catches the desire in her eyes, and she hopes he catches the words the bubble up from her throat.

“Next time,” she pants, “I’ll refuse.” She gasps as he sinks fully into her, allowing her to arch her back and grind up against his. “And you’ll accept it.” 

The bathwater runs down the drain in gulps. She lies on her stomach, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. His fingertips run over the undoubtedly reddened skin of her back.

He says, after the last bit of water drains out and before he starts a new bath, “I will.”


End file.
